Stitch: The lore of Sara Foxgrave.

Sara didn’t even know why she went out there that morning. She told herself it was just curiosity, just wanting to see how far the construction crew had gotten on the new house, but really it was because she hadn’t come back here since she returned. Not once. The old willow tree still hunched over the hill like it was guarding Lake Downing, its branches rattling in the cold wind, whispering the same secrets they used to whisper when she and Birdi climbed it and pretended they were queens of the whole damn world. The lake hadn’t changed at all. But she had. It felt smaller now, or maybe she did.

The foundation outline of the new house cut into the earth like a wound. Fresh lumber stacked nearby. The smell of sawdust and damp soil. Normal things. Real things. She breathed deep, trying to anchor herself, trying to convince her brain she was fine, she was present, she was not unraveling again.

She slipped down the narrow path toward the lake, the same one she and Birdi used to take when they wanted to disappear from the world. The old willow tree still guarded the shoreline, its long branches draping into the water like a curtain of green threads. Beneath it, the lake felt hidden, sheltered, almost claimed.

Her childhood hiding spot was still there too—the large rock tucked under the willow’s reach, the one with the little crevice she used to stash things in. When she crouched down, she found exactly what she expected: a rusted lighter, a half‑empty matchbox, a couple of smooth stones she’d once decided were lucky.

She set her clothes neatly on the rock and stepped into the water. The cold hit her like a thousand needles, but she kept going until she was fully submerged, letting the lake swallow the noise in her head. She floated under the willow’s branches for a long time, staring up at the shifting green canopy above her, letting the quiet settle into her bones.

Then the wind changed.

A scent drifted across the surface of the water—warm, earthy, smoky‑sweet. Neroli, pine, cedar. Amber. So out of place in the freezing air that her whole body went rigid.

She scrambled out, pulling her clothes on with shaking hands, breath coming too fast. The smell didn’t fade. It grew stronger as she climbed the hill toward her bike, curling around her like something following close behind.

Her breath caught. Her heart stuttered. It was the scent from her dreams—the one that always came right before him. Not a shadow, not some faceless nightmare, but the man with the emerald‑green eyes she could never forget. The dark hair. The scar that cut down his cheek like a warning. She never remembered his voice, never remembered his shape clearly, but the eyes and the smell were burned into her memory.

Her knees nearly buckled. She spun around, scanning the tree line, the road, the empty stretch of grass. Nothing. No one. But the scent lingered, curling around her like fingers.

I’m losing it again. I’m actually losing it, she thought as she forced herself forward, her boots crunching fast over gravel. Her hands shook so badly she fumbled her keys twice before she got the bike started. She tore out of the cemetery road like something was chasing her, even though she knew—she knew—nothing was there. Or nothing she could see.

By the time she got home, her nerves were frayed to threads. She showered fast, scrubbing her skin like she could wash the scent off her memory. She dressed for her shift at Richard’s, pulling her hoodie tight around her shoulders.

Birdi was already in the kitchen, perched on the counter like a caffeinated gremlin with a stack of flyers spread out beside her and a grin that meant trouble.

“Okay,” Birdi announced, “Halloween party plans are officially underway. Richard said yes. I’m running the whole thing. And—” she wiggled her eyebrows like she was about to reveal a state secret, “I picked out a costume for you.”

Sara froze mid‑zip. “Birdi. No.”

“Yes. Absolutely yes. You’re wearing it.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re working and participating,” Birdi corrected, hopping off the counter. “You’ve been doing this whole ‘day by day’ thing for months. You’re doing great. This is just… leveling up.”

Sara sighed. “I don’t do dressing up. You know this, woman.”

“You do this one,” Birdi said, tapping her forehead like she was ringing a doorbell. “Trust me. You’ll look amazing. And it’s not even slutty. Well. Not that slutty.”

Sara groaned, but Birdi softened, just a little. “Hey. You’ve been trying. Really trying. Let yourself have one night where you’re not hiding from your own brain.”

Sara didn’t argue. She didn’t have the energy. Her mind kept drifting back to the woods, to the scent that shouldn’t exist outside her mind. She didn’t tell Birdi. She couldn’t. Not yet. Not ever.

The diner was already buzzing when she got there—coffee machines hissing, glasses clattering, the usual get‑ready‑for‑the‑night‑shift chaos. Sara slipped into her routine, grateful for the distraction. She wiped counters, served drinks, and dodged regulars who thought flirting counted as tipping. The rhythm helped. It always did.

Halfway through her shift, the bell over the door chimed.

She didn’t look up at first. She didn’t have to. The scent hit her before the cold air from outside did. Slow. Heavy. Familiar in the worst way.

Her stomach dropped.

She turned.

A man stood just inside the doorway, tall enough that he had to duck slightly under the frame. His jacket was dark, road‑worn, dusted with grit. His hair was a deep brown‑black, pulled back and messy, like he’d been driving with the windows down for hours. Broad shoulders, relaxed posture, the kind of quiet confidence that didn’t need to announce itself.

He paused there for a moment, letting the warmth of the diner settle around him.

When his eyes finally lifted, Sara felt something in her chest tighten. Emerald green—sharp, startling, out of place in the dim bar lighting. Familiar in a way she couldn’t explain. Not familiar like memory, but familiar like déjà vu hitting too hard. Like seeing someone she’d never met and somehow missing them.

He looked at her the same way. Not recognition. Not surprise. Just… arrested. Like she’d walked out of a story he’d forgotten he knew.

Sara swallowed, forcing her feet to move. She walked toward him slowly, her pulse thudding in her ears, trying to keep her face neutral even though her nerves were sparking under her skin.

“What can I get ya?” she asked over the noise.

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked over her face—taking her in, trying to place a feeling he didn’t have words for. Then he blinked once, grounding himself, and set a wrinkled hundred‑dollar bill on the counter.

“Vodka,” he said. “Tall glass. Four cubes on the side. And not the bottom‑shelf watered‑down shit either.” He nudged the bill forward with two fingers. “Leave the bottle.”

Sara nodded. “Coming right up.”

She spun around, grateful for the momentary escape, grabbing the good vodka, a clean glass, and a scoop of ice. Her hands moved on autopilot, but her nerves buzzed under her skin. She set everything in front of him—bottle, glass, ice—and finally met his eyes again.

“You stick out like a sore thumb around here,” she said, trying to sound casual. “You from here?”

He poured his own drink, the motion slow and deliberate. “Yeah,” he answered. “Just came back a few days ago. Family property out on the edge of town. Place is falling apart, but it’s mine to deal with now.” He paused, then added, “Name’s Bane.”

Sara nodded once. “Sara.”

He studied her for a beat, the corner of his mouth ticking like he almost smiled. “You stick out too,” he said. “You from around here?”

“Born and raised,” she said, wiping down the counter even though it didn’t need it. “Just came home a couple months ago. Not even.”

That was enough talking for her. She drifted back into her work—refilling shakers, checking the register, wiping down the bar. Bane didn’t push conversation. He just watched her with that quiet, arrested stillness, like he was trying to figure out why she felt familiar.

A stool scraped beside him.

Old Man Mark dropped into the seat, already smelling like he’d started drinking hours ago. Everyone called him that—the town drunk with a loud mouth and a talent for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, but he always meant well and had a big heart. He liked to tell the town gossip to anyone who would listen.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Mark said, squinting at Bane. “Haven’t seen you in years. You’re one of the old family boys, ain’t ya? The ones with that busted‑up estate out past the cemetery. What’s that—the old Akani place, right?”

Bane didn’t answer, just sipped his vodka and nodded.

Mark leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to share a secret with the whole room. “You know who you’re sittin’ next to?” He jabbed a thumb toward Sara. “Town’s own personal Bruce Wayne. Girl disappeared for ten years. Poof. Gone. No one knew where she went.”

Sara’s head snapped up. “Mark,” she barked, “stop telling wild stories and finish your drink. Your wife’s waiting for you at home.”

Mark grumbled but shut up, nursing his glass.

Bane didn’t look away from Sara.

And Sara didn’t look away from him.

Something electric hung between them—not recognition, not memory, just that strange, impossible pull neither of them understood yet.

Sara was the first to break eye contact. Her throat felt tight. Her ribs ached. She needed air.

“Josh, I need a break,” she called out, louder than she meant to.

Josh looked up from drying glasses. He was a stout, quiet guy a few years younger than her, an Army veteran with more ghosts than he ever talked about. Dark brown hair, round face, sharp brown eyes that missed nothing. His wife, Stephani, was perched at the bar tonight—a dark‑haired Greek goddess with the mouth of a sailor and the right hook of a boxer. She kept Josh grounded, and Sara loved watching the two of them together. It reminded her that some people actually found love that didn’t burn them alive.

Josh nodded. “Go on, get on out there. Take a break.”

Sara slipped out the back door onto the deck behind the diner‑pub. Rain hammered the wooden boards, loud and relentless. The air smelled like wet leaves breaking down, cold dirt, and the faint brine of the ocean drifting in from miles away. She lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall, letting the rain mist her face.

Stephani slipped off her barstool the moment she saw Sara head back out into the rain. She muttered something to Josh, grabbed her jacket, and pushed through the back door after her. The downpour hit her instantly, flattening her dark hair against her cheeks, but she didn’t care. She lit her cigarette with practiced ease and leaned beside Sara against the wall.

“How you holding up?” Stephani asked, smoke curling from her lips.

Sara shrugged, staring out at the sheets of rain hammering the deck. “Fine.”

Stephani snorted. “Bullshit. You look like you saw a ghost.”

Sara didn’t answer. She didn’t have the words for whatever that moment with Bane had been. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to.

Stephani nudged her shoulder. “That guy at the bar? The tall one with the ‘I’ve seen some shit’ eyes? He’s watching you like you hung the damn moon.”

Sara rolled her eyes. “He’s just a customer.”

“Uh‑huh,” Stephani said, unconvinced. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

Sara took a long drag, letting the nicotine settle her nerves. “It’s nothing. Just… weird. I don’t know.”

Stephani didn’t push. She never did. She just stood there with her, letting the rain drown out the noise of the world. That was why Sara liked her—she didn’t pry, didn’t dig, didn’t try to fix things. She just existed beside you until you could breathe again.

Sara flicked her cigarette into the rain and straightened. “Break’s over.”

Stephani nodded and followed her back inside.

The bar felt warmer after the cold outside, but Sara’s skin still buzzed. Josh and Bane were talking quietly, leaning in just enough to show it wasn’t small talk. They stopped the moment Sara tied her apron back on.

She didn’t think much of it. Social stuff never entertained her. She liked the working—the rhythm, the distraction, the way her hands knew what to do even when her brain didn’t.

Bane turned toward her.

“Josh says you’re a veteran,” he said. “I am too. What branch were you in?”

Sara kept wiping down the counter. “Air Force. Security Forces.”

It was true. Just not all of it. The assassin part stayed buried where it belonged.

Bane nodded once, accepting the answer without pushing. She appreciated that more than she expected.

The night rolled on. Patrons trickled out into the rain or got louder, sloppier, leaning into their last drinks. The bar had thirty minutes before closing, and Sara could feel the shift—that restless energy people got when they knew the night was almost over.

Stephani returned to her seat beside Josh, whispering something that made him smirk. Old Man Mark was half‑asleep on his stool, mumbling into his glass. The jukebox hummed low in the background, some old rock song barely audible over the chatter.

Bane stayed quiet, nursing his vodka, watching Sara work like he was trying to understand something he couldn’t name.

Sara kept moving, kept busy, kept her thoughts locked down tight.

But every time she passed him, she felt it again—that strange, impossible pull.

And she had no idea what to do with it.

Bane nodded once, accepting her answer without digging. She appreciated that.

“Marines,” he said. “Infantry.” He took another slow sip of his drink.

“Well that doesn’t surprise me,” Old Man Mark barked from behind his glass. “The size of you alone would have commies runnin’ for the hills.” He chuckled at his own joke, shoulders shaking.

Bane didn’t react. He didn’t even look at Mark. He just kept his attention on Sara, steady and unreadable.

The night rolled on. Patrons either trickled out into the rain or got louder, sloppier, leaning into their last drinks. The bar had thirty minutes before closing, and Sara could feel the shift—that restless energy people got when they knew the night was almost over.

Bane stayed quiet, nursing his vodka, watching her work like he was trying to understand something he couldn’t name.

Sara kept moving, kept busy, kept her thoughts locked down tight.

But every time she passed him, she felt it again—that strange, impossible pull.

And she had no idea what to do with it.